“If you can’t give me any more concrete information than that,” said Ellery, “I want permission to search the private apartments of the Residence. Specifically, the Bendigo living-quarters.” He added brutally, looking Abel in the eye, “Nothing like starting in the feed-box, Abel, is there?”
Abel blinked. He blinked very rapidly indeed, and he kept blinking.
That’s where I’ll find it, thought Ellery.
King Bendigo snapped, “All right, Queen, you have our permission. Now get out, before I let Max’l boot you out.”
Ellery picked his father up in their suite.
“I made myself as obnoxious as possible,” he concluded his recital of his adventures in the Home Office, “and I made one discovery, Dad — no, two.”
“I know the first,” grunted his father. “That you were born with the luck of the leprechaun.”
“We’ll find the murderous portable somewhere in the Bendigo living-quarters,” said Ellery. “That’s one. The other is that King is an even more dangerous man than I thought. He has not only the power of a tyrant, but a tyrant’s whims as well. And he’ll become more whimsical when he recognizes power in others. It’s a trait I don’t trust. Let’s see if Abel’s carried out his lord’s command.”
Abel had. They were not stopped by the guards. The officer in charge looked pained, but he saluted and stepped aside without a word.
Each member of the family had a private suite, and the Queens searched them in turn. There was no sign of a machine in Karla Bendigo’s suite, and no sign of Karla. They found a typewriter in the King’s study, and one in Abel’s, but these were standard machines of a different make. They were approaching Judah’s quarters when Ellery noticed for the first time, across the corridor from Judah’s door, a large and massive-looking door of a design different from any he had seen in the Residence. He tried it. It was locked. He rapped on it. He whistled.
“Steel,” he said to his father. “I wonder what’s in here.”
“Let’s find out,” said the Inspector, and he went for the officer in charge.
“This is the Confidential Room, sir,” said the officer. “For the use of the King only, and of whoever’s helping him. Usually it’s Mr. Abel.”
“Where the deeper skulduggery is planned, hm?” said Ellery. “Open it, please, Captain.”
“Sorry, sir. No one may enter this room except by special permission.”
“Well, you’ve got your orders. I’ve been granted special permission.”
“Nothing was said about the Confidential Room, sir,” said the officer.
“Then get something said.”
“One moment, sir.”
The officer strode away.
The Queens waited.
“Confidential Room,” grunted the Inspector. “Fat chance we have to get in there. I suppose that’s where he and Abel work nights when they don’t want to go back to the Home Office.”
The officer came back. “Permission refused, sir.”
“What!” exploded Ellery. “After all that—”
“Mr. Abel assures Mr. Queen that there is no Winchester Noiseless Portable typewriter in the Confidential Room.”
They watched the officer march away.
“It looks, Dad,” said Ellery, “as if Mr. Judah Bendigo is elected.”
He was. They found a Winchester Noiseless Portable in Judah’s study.
Judah Bendigo was still in bed, snoring the spasmodic snores of the very drunk. The Inspector set his back against the bedroom door while Ellery looked around.
There was nothing like Judah’s suite anywhere in the Residence. Karla’s had been feminine, but it lacked depth and breadth. These were the cluttered, comfortable quarters of a man of intelligence, culture, and artistic passions. The books were catholic in range, visibly read, and many were rare and beautiful volumes. The paintings and etchings were originals and could not have been gathered by any but a man of acute perception and taste. Many were by artists unknown to Ellery, which pleased him, for it was evident that Judah set no store by mere reputation, seeing greatness still unrecognized elsewhere. At the same time, there were two little Utrillos which Ellery would have given a great deal to own.
One entire wall was given over to music recordings. Perhaps twenty-five hundred albums, a fabulous record collection which must have taken many years to put together. Ellery saw numerous recordings which had long been out of print and were rare collectors’ items. Palestrina, Pergolesi, Buxtehude, Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Handel, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Schumann, Brahms, Bruckner, and Mahler were heavily represented; there were whole volumes of Gregorian chants; and one long shelf was devoted to ethnic music. But Bartók was there, too, and Hindemith, and Shostakovich, and Toch. It was a collection which embraced the great music of the Western world since the ninth century.
On a table, in a velvet-lined case which was open, glowed a Stradivarius violin. Ellery touched the strings; the instrument was in perfect tune.
And he opened the Bechstein piano. No bell-shaped bottles here! Here, Judah Bendigo found such subterfuge unnecessary. In the corner of the room behind the piano, piled high, stood six cases of Segonzac cognac.
Ellery glanced at the bedroom door with an unhappy frown.
He shook his head and went to the Florentine leather-topped desk on which the Winchester portable stood.
He did not touch it.
Suddenly he sat down and began to rummage through drawers.
The Inspector watched in his own silence.
“Here’s the stationery.”
There was a large box of it — creamy single sheets, personal letter size, of a fine vellum-type paper without monogram or imprint.
“You’re sure, Ellery?”
“It’s of Italian manufacture. The watermarks are identical. I’m sure.”
He took one of the sheets from the box and returned the box to its drawer. The sheet he inserted in the carriage of the machine.
“He’ll wake up,” said the Inspector.
“I hope he does. But he won’t. He’s stupefied and this is a Noiseless... I don’t get it. If this is the same machine—”
Ellery brought out the third threatening note, propped it against a bottle of Segonzac on the desk and copied its message on the blank sheet.
The machine made a pattering sound. It was soothing.
Ellery removed the copy and set it beside the original. And he sighed, unsoothed. The evidence was conclusive: The latest message threatening King Bendigo’s life and setting the date for Thursday, June the twenty-first, had been typed on this machine. Slight discrepancies in alignment, ink flaws in the impression of certain characters, were identical.
“It is, Dad.”
They looked at each other across Judah’s quiet room.
After a while the Inspector said, “No concealment. None at all. Anybody — Abel, King — could walk in here at any hour of the day or night and in ten seconds find the stationery, the typewriter, make the same test, reach the same conclusion. Or Colonel Spring, or any security guard on the premises. Max’l could do it!”
“Abel did do it.”
Brother proposing to take the life of brother, and taking no precautions of any kind against discovery. And another brother discovering this and — most baffling of all — seeking confirmation where no confirmation was even remotely called for...
“Maybe,” said the Inspector softly, “maybe Judah’s being framed, Ellery, and Abel knows it or suspects it.”
“And would that present a problem?” said Ellery, gnawing his knuckles. “On the top floor of the central building of this fortified castle, in the private apartment of one of the royal family? Does that sort of thing require ‘experts’ flown from New York? When they’ve got a complete law-enforcement organization here, with undoubtedly the most advanced facilities? All the exploration of that theory would require, Dad, is the simplest sort of trap. A mere fingerprint checkup, for that matter.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”